meandering paths among heaps and stones slow streamings, quietude murmursof pebble movement who is counting here who knows the names,house around the corner, talked, read. beyond that, quiet, quietude.all gods are smoothed, all gods are filled with the quietude of rustlings,meandering paths among heaps and stones slow streamings, quietude murmursall gods are smoothed, all gods are filled with the quietude of rustlingsof the language of words and their talisman and of death, quietude andhearth of quietude, silence to place

exuding infinite quietude. all silence, words are not better than...besilent

for i am speaking of quietude, the grace of being, contemplation,the quietude of familiality, the space where everything is

Kittler just died, I remember Sartre going, my father at 97 was born in1914, his mother died very shortly after, the world went into flames, hascontinued along the same path. So everything, Derrida, Lacan, Jack Benny,falls apart, falls out, I continue to work not with _those_ references,but in new currents, until something withdraws, draws me back. It's toosimple to think of the past as stories, that what one ultimately offers isstories, that these go the ways of mourning, lamentation, pain, deathitself. As if we're continuously walking wounded. I'm tired of this; Iwant to work new for another twenty years at least. Memorials throw meback into pasts that gnaw away at my soul, with the appetition of souls asso many Barthian puncta, grasping away. It's all fiction. Tonight I wasgiven a sheaf of pages from a scrapbook or photobook of myself at ages